


The Collapse in Five Movements

by VictoriaJumbled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A tiny bit of fluff, Angst and Feels, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I'm Going to Hell, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Instability, POV Sherlock Holmes, This was supposed to be a Christmas present, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaJumbled/pseuds/VictoriaJumbled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock starts having nightmares about John every night after the fall, he starts practicing lucid dreaming. Soon the dreams spin out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Collapse in Five Movements

**Author's Note:**

> A Christmas gift for talesofsymphoniac. 
> 
> I hope you like it❤

Sherlock walked through the doors into the 221B flat to find John sitting in his chair, tapping his feet in impatience for Sherlock to arrive. 

“Hello,” said Sherlock. 

John jumped up and wrapped his arms around his mad flatmate. 

“I have been waiting for ages. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you again!” said John. 

“Well, actually, that is something that is very likely to happen. Sit. We have much to discuss.”

John loosened his embrace enough to look Sherlock in the face. 

“What could you possibly mean by that? Is this going to be our last time together?”

John clung to Sherlock’s wrists, face contorted with anger and disgust. 

“You think I don’t realize this means something to you too? You think I don’t see the relief when I wrap my arms around you? You think you can hide from me, Sherlock?

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment he asked John again, "Sit? Please?”

John reluctantly backed off and walked to his chair. He sat on the very edge, back completely straight. 

“What’s this about? Please tell me it’s only a hiatus. Tell me you’ll come back to me.”

“I can’t do that, John.”

“Please, Sherlock, you don’t know what it is like without you. I don’t want to be encased in that darkness again.”

“John-”

“No! I know you love me too! I know you need me just as much as I need you, you bloody idiot! I’m not going to stand by and watch you fall apart. I won’t do it. I love you.”

John fell to his knees before Sherlock, chanting, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you….”

“John, stop.” 

Tears ran down John’s face as he hugged Sherlock’s knees. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

“John, you can’t love me.”

The tears dripped onto Sherlock’s trousers as John laid his head on Sherlock’s lap. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…”

“You can’t love me! You’re just a fucking dream!”

~~~

Barely even conscious that he was doing so, Sherlock lit a cigarette and inhaled a deep drag, watching the smoke float to the rooftops surrounding him. This was it. He was finally going to see John for the first time since the fall. Sherlock knew he was fidgeting. 

He wondered what posssesed John to pick out this particular restaurant. It was much more posh than the standard of the old days back on Baker Street. The servings here were minimal and over-cooked. Had his blogger changed so much in just these few years? No. It couldn’t be. John was Sherlock’s constant, his fixed point through the hurricane. 

He thought for a minute on his best opportunity to astound John. He should pose as the maitre d’! John wouldn’t see that coming. Would he be greeted with another “fantastic” or “brilliant”? Or would this be an occasion worthy of the words “piss off”? Or something worse? No. This was John Hamish Watson. His life was blinking out before he stumbled upon Sherlock. It would be the same-old-same song and dance.

Would he be upset? Depressed? Would he huff out that bright laughter that Sherlock couldn’t help but join? Would he be bitter? Bullocks. 

It was time for the show to start.

But. Oh. Now… now there’s Mary. 

~~~

Sherlock had started practicing lucid dreaming techniques when he began having constant nightmares of John during his time abroad. It seemed his dreams were only partially in his control. John had stared clinging to him, touching him constantly, even if only by his fingertip. 

At first John’s presence and constant closeness terrified Sherlock. Soon Sherlock was holding John’s hand back and longing for the imaginary, comforting touch when forced to remain awake. He had turned away from his new sanctuary when he knew it was time again to have the real John in his waking life. 

However, it seemed John did not have time for Sherlock now. John had Mary. Cheerful, crass, (safe) and otherwise boring Mary. Sherlock did his best to love her. If she was truly what John wanted, he wouldn’t interfere. During his conscious hours, Sherlock delved deep into the planning of the perfect wedding between John Watson and Mary Morstan. 

Sherlock helped order hors d'oeuvres, flowers and centerpieces, book the seating and reception area, and send out invitations. It was quite easy to do. Mycroft had always had a soft spot for interior design and strict scheduling, so it was a world in which Sherlock felt almost comfortable. One only needed to follow the patterns to produce the effect of affection and happiness. It was little more than an elaborate acting job. 

~

On a day Sherlock was expecting John and Mary to come over to finalize some details of the wedding (like the photographer– Mary insisted on an amateur who was a old friend) Sherlock was having difficulties. He was finding himself tempted back into his romantic fantasy John. The previous evening, before he even realized what he was doing, he was dreaming of his hands sliding underneath John’s button up shirt and digging into his Army Captain’s shoulders. He had jolted awake and took to his violin for the remainder of the night. 

As the London sun seeped in through the dirty windows, Sherlock looked at his isolated flat. Between the glasses of old, sharp whiskey remnants and the stale air that seemed to smother the sitting area, Sherlock found it necessary to clean. He opened the windows to freshen the air and put the flat together in a better impression of someone who was happy about his best mate’s impending marriage. 

He picked up his piles of sheet music and strewn contents of his liquor cabinet. He vacuumed the furniture and the rug and lit one of the scented candles Mrs. Hudson was so insistent that he keep. 

He searched through the refrigerator for some nice molds to keep out on the kitchen table. Appearances are necessary. Even on his dullest days, John would notice something amiss if there failed to be an experiment on the kitchen table Sherloc sat in his chair with his hands under his chin while he catalogued his knowledge of appropriate social etiquette around couples. He didn’t move, even as he heard the footsteps of the happy couple ascending the stairs. 

~~~

A baby? A _baby_?! Where in this entire life that Sherlock had made for himself (and John) was there possibly room for a baby?

Sholto? It was obvious that at one time John was quite infatuated with the man. The problem wasn’t that Sherlock was male, the problem was… Sherlock. John could never love him. Sherlock sagged in his chair. He picked up his glass of scotch (or was it bourbon? he wasn’t tasting it anyway) and drained it. 

If the marriage didn’t work out so well, then it could easily be dissolved. _John could come back._ But now, there was a baby. John would never turn his back on any child, not after what happened to Harriet Watson. Harry wasn’t the lesbian everyone made her out to be. The Watson parents watched as Harry went through a series of increasingly abusive, violent heterosexual relationships, but couldn’t stomach the idea that their precious baby making machine had fallen for a girl. Liz was a no-nonsense feminist who taught Harry how to stand up for herself and drown her sorrows. That was worth a slap across the face and an exile. John could be a better parent than that. John _would_ be. 

Sherlock didn’t know when he had emptied the bottle. He looked at his surroundings. Oh, he was still wearing his Best Man attire. He stood up and shrugged off his suit when he finally stopped swaying. 

Why was his face so wet? Was he crying? He wiped his tears away (definitely tears: tasted of salt and ammonia) and stumbled into his bedroom. He fell on the bed, deciding to rest his eyes for only a moment while the room was spinning. 

“John, why does it actually hurt to have your heart broken? Am I merely feeling an ulcer or heart attack or other inane ailment? Is this what it feels like in the rare cases of sponteneous combustion? More likely to be the cause than this ‘machine’ having a broken heart.”

“You’re not a sodding machine. You’ll never know how much I regret saying that.”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John sitting at the foot of his bed. His left hand started stroking Sherlock’s calf. 

“J-Jo-John? Is that you? Is this even real?” Sherlock sat up. Are you only the… dream… John?“ he whispered. 

"I’m _your_ John. And I’m never giving you up again.”

John climbed onto Sherlock. Sherlock gasped. 

“John! You can’t! I don’t know what I’m doing! I’ve never.. I don’t…. I will disappoint -”

“Shhhh. Easy now, babe. You’ll never fall again while I’ve got you.” 

Sherlock slowly lost his tension. 

“I’ll make you feel so damn good… you’ll never be able to leave me again.”

John surged forward for a forceful kiss and Sherlock was gasping for air. 

“Shhh…. let me take care of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stopped fighting. His hunger began, raging and furious that night. 

~~~

It started out _good,_ it started out sweet. Sherlock would lie in the bliss of their two joined bodies feeling hopeful for the first time in months. Slowly, subconscious John began to change. It started with a simple request; it seemed Sherlock was not the genius in the bedroom that he was for The Work. John said he couldn’t allow Sherlock to touch him after such a misstep, so they spent the night watching crap telly.  
_Really Sherlock, you think I’m the type of bloke to do_ that _? Do you even know me?_

Soon Sherlock found himself unable to please John at all. 

_For such a 'genius’ you sure know nothing about physical intimacy. Sometimes you repulse me with the way you touch me!_

_No wonder no one else considers you a friend. It’s fucking exhausting being around such a worthless robot trying to fake emotions like a real boy all the time._

_I swear Sherlock, if you weren’t so pretty, if I didn’t feel so sorry for you, I’d have to leave. Hell, I’m tempted to throw myself off the roof of Bart’s._

Sherlock knew he deserved it. He left John. He hurt the only person who could ever love a tramp like himself. Sometimes he felt the wounds left in his imagination by John hurt far worse than anything that happened in Serbia. But there was work to do. Charles Augustus Magnusson couldn’t be allowed to destroy another life. Sherlock did what he could to avoid the hateful sneer of John and focus on the case. With a syringe full of distraction, he threw himself into the case. 

~

“Did you come for me, too?”

~

“Because you chose her.”

~~~

With his hospitilization, Sherlock was able to finally sleep without the weight of John in his dreams. It seemed a shot in the chest was the most pain his treacherous body would allow him to feel at one time. Maybe it could also be John’s presence in his life again. John, faithful John, loving army doctor and blogger, hadn’t left Sherlock’s side. Now they were to be enclosed in Baker Street yet again. 

John would help Sherlock perform all of his daily tasks. It amazed him that John never once seemed hesitant of full physical contact in order to help Sherlock out. John didn’t complain once about prepping tea or meals, or doing any of the things Sherlock found himself at a loss for. 

On a dreary, bitter cold day in early December, John finally broke. 

“Sherlock? There seems to be something bothering you. I don’t mean this Magnusson business, either. Although I know it’s been eating at you a lot lately, too. Look, I know that I failed you when I didn’t realize Mary would ever, ever…. shoot you, Christ-”

“John-” 

“No, please hear me out. You flinch away every time I try to help you out. I know she was a psychopath, but I wouldn’t ever hurt you intentionally. You’re the greatest man I’ve ever met. I care about you too much to let that happen again.”

John stared down at the cup in his hands. 

“John, I know you wouldn’t hurt me on purpose.” Sherlock paused. “I’ve simply gotten too familiar with not having anyone around. Ever. I’ll be giving you orders again, soon.”

Sherlock tried to smile. John looked up. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. I haven’t really been there for you as of late…”

Sherlock was horrified. He rushed to say, “You’re a married man now, John. And a baby on the way. How were you supposed to know things would turn out this way? If I could not see it, then you surely wouldn’t have been able to wrap your simple mind around it. ”

John barked out a laugh. “Yeah, you’ll be alright, git.”

With this, they both smiled. Sherlock decided to ensure that smile was a commonplace feature on John’s face. 

  
That night, Sherlock dreamt of John again. John had bound Sherlock to one of the beams of the ceiling in an unfamiliar room. With each new bite that John would mark into his flesh, Sherlock would sob and beg for forgiveness. John seemed to only be enraged further with each plea. Sherlock’s shoulders shook with his uncontrollable weeping. 

“SHERLOCK!”

Sherlock didn’t want to look at John. 

“SHERLOCK! It’s me, it’s John! I’m not going to hurt you!”

Sherlock opened his eyes to find John kneeling over him, tears streaming down his face. John was cradling Sherlock’s face in his hands. 

“John? Is that really you? I can’t tell anymore. Please don’t hate me. I didn’t mean to disappoint you.”

“You- disappoint? Ha! No. No, no, no.” John gathered Sherlock into his arms. “How could you ever disappoint me, you bloody mad, beautiful genius? You’re the best of us, Sherlock. You are the reason the stars shine so bright.”

“John, what? I hurt you. I’m sorry. I don’t need to be here. You don’t need to be here, with me. I’ll only break you.”

“Hush.” John stroked Sherlock’s hair and rocked him back and forth. “You hurt me to save me. Didn’t think I’d figure it out, but yeah. You did what you could to keep me alive and safe. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have rather been with you, but I think I’m past that now.”

Sherlock started to calm. “John, I am so sorry. I didn’t see who Mary is. I let you get hurt again. I’m not worth your kindness.”

John pulled back to look at Sherlock in the eyes. He said, “It’s my fault. I was never even paying attention to the assassin in my bed. I spent every minute of every day thinking of you. I love you too much to even notice I’d married a killer.”

“John, it’s not your fault, it’s mine. I never should have—- Love?”

John rested his forehead to Sherlock’s and whispered “Yeah. Sorry about that. I can’t seem to stop.”

Sherlock sat in stunned silence. He thought back on the past year. It was difficult to separate John the dream from Just John. He thought back on the stag night, the affection at the wedding, his anger in the drug den, and his jealousy of the silly Janine act. It seemed John was hiding his affections as well. Sherlock found the strength to push forward the last couple of inches and covered John’s mouth with his own. John started to tremble. 

“Oh, God, Sherlock. Oh, my love…”

Sherlock didn’t realize how much was lacking in his dreams. He didn’t realize that John would taste intoxicating or that the smell of him was enough to hitch his breath. John’s touch was softer, more tender than the most vivid of his reveries. That night Sherlock and John took the time to take each other apart, piece by perfect piece. 

The next two weeks flew by in a dizzy, thrilling blur. Sherlock couldn’t remember life away from John’s loving gaze. With the dark cloud above him finally fading completely, Sherlock felt his mind was his own again at last. Sherlock prepared John for their confrontations with Mary and Magnusson. 

Sherlock feared that Mary would be difficult to predict should she find out about the change in his and John’s relationship. 

“As soon as we have the evidence against Mary, you can have all of me. I’ll give you my heart, my soul, my body, my mind, my name, my love. I don’t care. I want you to consume me.”

Sherlock faked a scandalized look. “Only when I am yours completely. We must proceed carefully. I will not allow you to be hurt again.”

“I understand. I cannot wait for the day that I can claim to be only yours. I want to tell the world that you are the only person to hold my heart. You are everything to me, Sherlock.”

“As soon as Christmas is over, John, you’ll have me. All of me.”  
  
~

They spent Christmas Eve retelling stories of their childhood. They danced behind closed doors, bodies flushed together. They fell asleep entangled on the couch. When they awoke, Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple. 

“Come John. We must prepare for the collapse. It’s the last act in this nightmarish play.”

Their hands remained joined throughout the drive to the Holmes’ residence. 

~

“Give my love to Mary.” _Not for me, after all. Not for me._  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”  
“Sorry?”  
“That’s the whole of it.”

~

And as the airplane turned around, Sherlock knew that he’d whatever possible to keep his promise to John. Jim had better sleep with one eye open. There’s an East Wind coming.


End file.
